A Ranger's Duty
by Evening Nightshade
Summary: Slightly AU. Strider, scourging the borders of the Shire, encounters not Orcs, but a lost and injured hobbit lad... Revised


**A RANGER'S DUTY, BY EVENING NIGHTSHADE**

_Disclaimer:_ Alas! Nothing you may recognise belongs to me. LOTR and its characters/places are Tolkien's work.

_Summary:_ Slightly AU. Strider, scourging the borders of the Shire, encounters not Orcs, but a lost and injured hobbit lad…

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Such a sweet innocent race; almost naive at times. But maybe there is nothing wrong with naivety. Often, it is something I long for myself. Yet, given what I have seen… horrors that have reduced Men stronger than myself to tears… 'tis a futile longing.

I wish no ill on these Halflings, whose lives flick like a candle of hope amongst this growing darkness. Until breath flees my lungs, blood my veins and my sword falls from my limp grasp, I will never cease to fight and protect these people whose innocence I envy so.

_The life of a Ranger is fraught with peril, hostility, and all too painfully often, death, _my first Captain told me. _We awake with the sun, knowing not if we shall live to see the dusk.., Our losses have been heavy of late… but the deaths of these brave Men – and women – shall not be forgotten… But remember, young Dunedain… Protection is not a Ranger's only duty…_

e awaken every morning, not knowing if we will see the dusk that evening. In some areas of Eriador, as many as three of their fellows die every day. The deaths of these brave Men - and women - shall not be in vain, and I vowed to avenge them. But sometimes, protection is not a Ranger's only duty.

My skin prickles… I stiffen… Someone is close… Decades of roaming the unloving wilds have taught me much. I listen intently, knuckles whitenting as I grip the hilt of my sword…

A sob fills the air: a child, and an injured one by the sound of it. I follow those cries in silence.

To one lying hurt in the darkened forest, where unseen eyes watch your every move and trees loom like sinister watchtowers all around, the hardened voice of a Ranger would not aid matters.

_Why in the name of Eru, _I ask, _is a child so deep in the forest? And so late at night? _Dusk was many hours ago, and the moon shines high above in her fullest splendour. Could the young Halfling be lost? What is an Orc had slipped through the net of protection and -

Nay, those are ridiculous thoughts… But, nevertheless… Somewhere in the proximity of the trees, a poor, innocent lamb is miles from home, hurt, afraid and alone - I sense no others. At least, none living...

Through a gap in the tree, I see the slightest movement. The sobs grow louder, and I feel myself melt as I peer round the bough of a tree… Covered in dirt, curled into a ball of protection, one thumb in his own mouth, is a little boy. His brown eyes are clouded with tears, his arm twisted awkwardly.

I bend, crawling towards the child. With my haggard appearance and array of weapons, I hope he is not too startled.

The little boy looks up at me, eyes wide with something that looks like a cross between fear and relief. Fear of who I am and what I might do to harm him… yet, relief at my arrival. My grimy hand reaches out to brush a lone tear from his cheek, as he slowly and reluctantly pulls the thumb from his mouth.

'Tis my first real contact with a Halfling, and their fragility is… startling. Gandalf describes them as, "not unlike children in appearance." If that was an adult…

This boy, terror craved on his face, seems frighteningly minute – like a baby.

"Who... Who are you?" he whimpers, though whether it is more from the pain or fear, I cannot tell.

"Hush, little one," I whisper, trying to make my voice as soothing as I can. "I am here to help you."

Fresh tears meander down his delicate cheeks, like water from the Bruinen Falls. "My arm hurts. And I'm cold."

Almost immediately, I unpin my cloak and wrap it around the child like a blanket. "Is that any better, little one?" He nods, forcing a twisted smile. "What is you name?"

"Peregrin..." he mumbles through the agony he must be feeling. "But my friends call me Pippin. You can too, if you want."

I hestitate… he is so open, so quick to offer his hand in friendship…

"Who are you?" Peregrin, or Pippin, as he seems to prefer, pipes up, tugging at the sleeve of shirt with his unbroken hand.

Drawn from my reverie, I smile. "My name is Strider," I reply, pulling the pack off my shoulders and rummaging in it for a silver flask. Elven-crafted, it glimmers in the pale moonlight… "Drink this, it'll ease the pain."

He swallows nervously, face contouring into a wave of disgust. But, foul or not, the tonic seems to be taking effect. I see him relax, burrowing contentedly into the warmth of my cloak. Now, even more so than ever, he looks like a babe… if he stood, would his head even reach my knee?

Reluctantly, I tug the cloak away from his body, so I can attend to his arm. The skin is pale and discoloured; there is nothing I can do to heal the wound, save place it in a sling and allow time to do what my hands cannot.

Though his pain has been eased, I am unprepared for the yelp of pain as I stroke his injured limb. "Hurts..." he whimpers, and tears prick my eyes. "Hurts so much..."

I bursh a flyway curl from his face.

"I am sorry, Pippin. But I must bandage your arm, or it will not heal. Sometimes," I whisper, remembering the words of my mother, "Sometimes pain is needed is achieve something more important. Please, trust me."

His face devoid of colour and expression, he shifts his arm towards me. I tug some bandages from my pack, and set about preparing the arm, taking quietly to distract my infant patient.

"How old are you?"

"Ten years… almost," he replies. "How old are you?"

I chuckle. "Old, even for a man… far older than yourself…"

"Oh." Confusion creeps up his face, but he falls into silence, and leaves me to my ministrations.

"There, is that any better?" I ask, supporting his tiny back as he sits. Pippin nods. "Now, more importantly, where do you live, and why are you all alone in the woods at this time of night?"

"We were hiding… me and my cousins… saw that big tree over there," he points to a huge elm that looms over us, drowning us in its shadow. "I climbed it, and waited for them… but they never came, not one of them!" A sob rises in his throat. I sweep Pippin into my arms, imagining the frantic tears of young hobbits, returning to home to announce their loss… The tears of his mother, the yells of his father, and the frantic chatter of family members eager to find him…

"You fell, didn't you? When you tried to climb down?"

He nods, too upset to even speak. Yet, behind those eyes laden with tears, I see a strength and determination; perhaps, also a mischievous streak? I'm not sure. Pippin seems so innocent.

"I shall carry you to the Shire, if you want? 'Tis too dangerous to leave you alone out here…"

"I'm a Took," he says suddenly and sincerely. "We're not afraid of danger."

I smile. A Took then – Gandalf always said they were an unruly brood. Unnaturally curious, and even adventurous… I remember he told me about one in particular… Bilbo Baggins, part Took and quite the hero. I cannot help but wonder if this child will turn out like that too.

"Come." I sweep him easily into my arms, amidst his innocent, childlike giggles, which I soon join in with.

My Captain was right…


End file.
